


the pulse of the city

by ocheeva



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Gen, just true deep friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocheeva/pseuds/ocheeva
Summary: When neither you nor your best friend really know how to open up because you weren't made to be soft like that, you find other ways of being there for each other.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	the pulse of the city

She comes to him during the darkest hours sometimes, eyes wild and teeth clenched like something's haunting her. He gets it, because he feels the same way when the warm afternoons are too quiet and Eesh isn't there to put new flowers out.  
  


So they ride in her car together, the pulsing lights of Stilwater glinting off the metal of their guns, illuminating their faces in flashes of neon. They watch how the city turns purple over time, how yellow, green, and red become colours few people and even fewer companies want to use.  
  


The car she uses these nights is never purple. It's black or grey or white, one of thousands. He'd comment on it if anonymity didn't suit him since they got famous, since his own face started staring at him from billboards and bus stop ads.  
  


_You look good with your heads ten feet tall_ , she says when he sighs at a billboard for another Planet Saints one night, him and Pierce and Shaundi all looking down at them.  
  


_Yeah? So how come yours isn't up there too?_ he asks, smiling because she is.  
  


_Cameras couldn't do this work of art justice, you know that._  
  


He laughs because she's right, in a way - she wouldn't look right if they touched her up like they do Shaundi, wouldn't look right if you couldn't also see how sharp her edges are, how bloodied she is, how radiant. He doesn't look right like that either. Neither of them were made for plush TV couches or radio morning shows or trailers for shows running so often they get sick of their own voices. Not like Pierce or Shaundi who enjoy and nurture their careers - but then, Pierce and Shaundi were never made from grit and asphalt, were never brought up with bruises and blood staining their skin.  
  


He wonders if she misses it as much as he does, wonders if their nights in her car are a way to reconnect to the city, wonders if he should tell her they don't need to reconnect with a place whose pulse is matched to their heartbeats but has a feeling she'd throw him out if his words sounded soft, has a feeling they'd fit wrong in his mouth anyway. So he lets the radio fill the silence, lets her drive them from the museum district to the docks until her knuckles are no longer white when she grasps the wheel and figures it's enough to just sit here together and let the lights pass them by.


End file.
